Who Is She: an excerpt from Wanted
by Amber Everfor
Summary: The mirror shows the queen a desirable woman who stirs her passions- envy, rage, malice, and arousal that will require a young couple to satisfy-after she kills the fairest.


The mirror fogged in response to Genevieve's demanding query. Her body tensed and she stared into the glass. Was it finally going to tell her who it believed was fairer?

As the mist thinned, shapes penetrated, an angle that might be a raised leg, a plane that could be a flat stomach. The condensation faded more and shifted focus, to reveal a group of men in small beds. Genevieve frowned. What did they have to do with her question?

The mirror returned to the shapes, now revealed to be the form of a young woman highlighted by the moon to an incandescent silver, naked, in the room with the men, a slender hand caressing her vagina. The queen snarled. A common whore? That's what the mirror was showing her.

Like a lover might do, the view made a slow, appreciative scan of the long, toned thighs, the curve of hips and inward arc of a slender waist. It moved from one breast to another, as if the spirit trapped in the mirror mouthed them. The queen lifted her eyebrows. Interest growing, she pulled the ivory combs from her hair and fingered its softness. The mirror returned to the woman's lower body, still pampering her genitals. The queen licked her lips. She doubted this person was fairer than she, but definitely desirable.

She lowered her hand to her own vagina and rubbed in concert with the luscious, moon-lit image. "Who is it, Mirror? I want her."

She leaned closer as the spirit in the glass retraced itself. She reached out her hand to follow, as if she could touch the beautiful body. Her lips puckered as she played with the navel and admired the high arch of the back from a perfectly sized derriere. She glided her fingers up the slender rib cage, lingered over the bountiful, high breasts, rose to the long white neck...the lightly pointed chin...partially open mouth with irresistible ruby lips...slight hollows in her cheeks melding into tiny ears with suckable lobes...waves of...ebony hair…

That tic in the corner of her mouth she'd first felt before cursing Babette, then whenever anyone had spoken of her step-daughter, twisted her expression into a caricature of beauty, as more of the woman in the mirror was revealed. Pert nose with delicate nostrils...high cheekbones...snowy brow…

"NOOOOO!"

She cleared her dressing table with a furious sweep of her arm, costly perfume bottles shattering on the floor and powders clouding the air. Their scents mixed into a rancid essence of rage. Their detritus, along with spilled red rouges and black kohls made a terrible, angry abstract on the floor.

_Snow White! But Lon killed her. I ate her heart. _

Her chair fell over as she shot up, trembling with fury. She pulled out clumps of her chocolate brown hair and tore her gown from her, gouging her skin with frantic nails. "He lied to me! He swore he would never refuse me again and he let that little strumpet live! Now she lies naked masturbating in a room with seven men?"

She stalked her room in the remnants of her gown, buttocks like stone from her tension, breasts exposed with coin-sized red nipples, like licks of fire. "Did she fuck Lon for him to let her go? What the hell did he give me to eat? If he were here, I'd pull out his heart through his throat!"

Her breath was short, wrathful gasps, her pacing like that of mountain cat in front of its prey. "I'll find him and kill him," she resolved. "Argh!"

She stopped, having stepped on something sharp. She bent to pick it up, one of her ivory combs. In her mind, the color was that of the princess's skin, the curve like the hips the girl gyrated with men in the room…

"Where is she, Mirror? Tell me now, or I will break you into a million pieces." She clutched the frame in a hard fist, glaring at the image as it expanded beyond the fairest, beyond the seven-man witness to her orgasm, beyond the room to a tiny, round clay cottage in the wild. It flickered past landmarks in the woods to a familiar path and finally, to the murderous face of the queen herself.

She knew where to find her. Genevieve threw down the mirror and ran across the room to a hidden door. She flew down the dark steps to a freezing grotto where stood a large, iron cauldron and a table covered with vials, powders, bones and stones—her laboratory of evil.

She made a fire and poured, sprinkled and chanted, low and deadly. The potion boiled and hissed in a muddy ooze she stirred with a human femur, seeming to manifest the soul of its conjurer.

Genevieve skimmed the surface with the teeth of the comb, smiling with hate as the pores of ivory absorbed the poison. When she knew it was lethal, she hurried back up the steps to her room and pulled the golden cord.

"Yes, my queen," said the cherubic Leandra, responding to the summons. She looked askance at the litter of the broken glass and spilled cosmetics and the nearly nude monarch.

"Give me your gown," ordered the older woman as she laced up her tall, russet riding boots.

The maiden's bright hazel eyes widened. Her pink lips quivered. "I don't understand, my queen."

"I want your clothes," Genevieve said, one angry word at a time. "Take them off now!"

Leandra jumped at the tone and scurried to the dressing area where stood a large, tri-fold screen.

"I don't have time for your prissy modesty," snarled the queen, picking up a long, leather whip from her bedside table. "Take off your clothes or I'll take them off for you."

Tears streamed down the maiden's face as she undid the long line of buttons of her coarse fabric top and shrugged it off her shoulders. She untied her skirt and stepped out of it, handing them to the queen.

"I need your petticoat and corset too, you little fool." She snapped the whip for emphasis.

Leandra yelped with fright and fumbled with the laces of her corset, tossing it aside as if it could harm her. She hurriedly pulled off the petticoat as well, standing with goose bumps in a thin camisole and her muslin bloomers.

The girl's terror seemed to have a calming effect on the queen, or perhaps it was her nubile innocence. She ran her eyes up and down the shivering body. "The bloomers too."

"I have nothing on under them," Leandra whimpered.

"I'm allowing you to keep your camisole. I don't need it," Genevieve said in a sweet, cajoling voice. "Remove your bloomers, darling."

Leandra bit her bottom lip and untied the bow at the waist, sliding the bloomers down her legs to pool on the floor.

Genevieve's lips twitched into a tiny smile at the sight of the maiden's thin legs, peasant hips and perky breasts under the sheer, slip-like top. She dropped the whip with a thud and walked over to the quaking girl. She slid her hand up Leandra's bare arm. "How old are you?"

"I just turned eighteen, my queen," answered the strawberry blonde.

"Did you?" The queen turned away from the girl, gathered the clothes and threw on a long brocade coat. "Clean up this mess. And come back here later to wait for me."

Genevieve hurried to the stables. She wanted a fast horse. Unlike Tarik's stable, these walls were sturdy, the stalls clean, hay abundant. The smells were earthy, but not dirty. She went to the king's own powerful stallion. "Stable boy," she shouted, "ready this horse for me."

A tall, gangly young man ran from the other end of the stable, where he'd been grooming a mare. "Right away, Ma'am," he said, not recognizing the impatient woman.

"Queen Mira," she corrected him with a boxing of ears.

The young man gasped at his mistake and fell to his knees. "Forgive me, Queen Mira. I...I was in such a hurry to do as you asked, I..."

She laughed. This was the second young person she'd terrified this morning. She threw back the bottom of her coat, making her bare legs visible. She raised a boot under the boy's chin to lift his eyes to her—downy brown eyes with thick lashes, a lantern jaw and, most importantly, youthful attractiveness.

"Saddle the stallion for me."

He rose and, with quick efficiency, prepared the horse for a ride. Genevieve watched, impressed with his gentleness with the animal, his loose rings of chestnut hair and a tight, firm ass.

"What's your name," she asked.

"Henry, my queen."

"Henry," she smiled. She pulled back the coat again. "Help me mount."

He knelt before her and laced his fingers for her to step into, undoubtedly viewing the length of her legs, all the way to her uncovered sex.

She allowed him to boost her and settled into the saddle, hugging the big roan between her exposed thighs. Henry held up the rawhide reins to her. She leaned down to take them, undoubtedly giving him a view of her torn bodice, resting her ample breast on his arm. "After your work today, Henry, go to the castle and find Leandra. Tell her I said you are to wait with her until I return."


End file.
